


On the Equinox

by winged-obsessor (canticle)



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Four Swords
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe, Gen, Zombie Apocalypse, content warnings will be posted at the end of each chapter, crazy bow wielding botanist vio, featuring green the damsel in distress, mind the tag change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-05-17 11:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5867335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canticle/pseuds/winged-obsessor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gods are dead.<br/>The dead are alive.<br/>Vio just wants to live through this mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

> _A window_
> 
> _An open tomb_
> 
> _The sun crawls across your bedroom_
> 
> _A halo_
> 
> _A waning moon_
> 
> _Your last breath moving through you_
> 
> _as everything, everything ends_

_-Death Cab for Cutie, Meet Me on the Equinox_

 

Many days are the same.

He rises before the sun- the hours just before dawn are often most dangerous, and he must be on his guard. He sends Rey down to ghost above the multiple rings of tripwire surrounding his fort, high in the sturdiest goddesswood for miles around. The tripwires are connected to metal cans full of stones; if anything crosses them within five hundred feet, he willl know.

Some mornings he will spend some of his precious kerosene to heat water for a pot of tea, and while away the hours till the dawn with a steaming mug in his hands as he watches Rey scan the forest below. Kerosene is hard to carry this far up the ridge, however, and so many mornings he makes do with only the thin rounds of unleavened bread and berry jam that are his default breakfast.

Many mornings, he does not have to reach for the massive, heavy-stringed bow that rests always within arms reach until the sun's rays touch the horizon, gilding the ever-present clouds to the west, where the desert lays. He is free to descend to the forest floor at his leisure, where he can spend the daylight hours in various ways- scavenging, hunting, guarding the borders of his territory, eliminating anything that manages to slip through.

Many evenings, he returns to his tree fort, scales the rough wooden pegs as he has done countless times before with Rey swirling up behind him, either drops the rope ladder so he can carry whatever bounty up or checks that it is secured tightly, where no chance wind can send it tumbling to the loam below. Then he lights a candle- an easily renewable resource, from the fat rendered from animals he catches- and sups on meat (dried or fresh depending on his luck in the hunt), whatever greens he has gleaned from the surroundings, and- if it has not been too long since his last trip upriver- butter for his bread, sugar for his tea, even a few precious squares of chocolate once or twice a year.

Then he cups Rey between his palms, and she shares her knowledge with him. The ground over which she has flown over the day, where some herbage for his poultices or his stomach may lie, animals she has seen, and intruders she has repulsed. As he holds her, his wild elemental, more than a pet and not quite a friend, the palms of his hands glow with rich, green light.

Some nights she whispers _::danger::_ and he sits at the door to his hut, bow in hand, arrow nocked but string loose, until she whispers _::safe::_ and curls around him, a wisp of hot air and green sparks, sometimes mimicking the animals of the forest, sometimes hovering over his shoulder, coalesced into a shimmering sphere of light.

Some nights, she is bright enough to read by, and he does so until fatigue demands he close his eyes.

But this day is different.

This afternoon, Rey ghosts around him, a whisper-thin song of _::intruder, intruder, intruder::_ wriggling through his mind until he turns, alert and alarmed, hand already grasping for the stave of his bow. "Where?" he asks, and gets a confusing impression of _::north, south, river, forest, hot rock, blood, teeth::_ in reply. "Forgive me, let me clarify. Moaners or live ones?"

 _::both::_ she whispers. _::live, river, south, hot rock, blood, hurry!::_

He hurries. Everyone native to this part of the land knows that the five-mile stretch between Sunstop Ridge and the river was his. If there was a passer-through stupid enough to think he could claim it, well.

Many had tried.

Few had walked away under their own power.

As he runs through the trees Rey bends back branches that would strike him in the face, cushions his steps until they are near-inaudible; he passes within five feet of a doe, who glances up at him before returning to her feed, and fetches up against the sloped, rocky banks of the Great River.

Rey had not lied to him— he doubts she has the capacity to. There is a man sitting on a wide, flat rock near the slow-eddying waters of the shore. He carries a tattered pack and wears a ridiculous-looking wide-brimmed hat, and his pants and boots are covered in mud and stains. He looks weary, not murderous, but these days one can be both, and Vio has lived in this harsh land for far too long to let his caution down.

He waits at the treeline for five minutes, then ten. No one else approaches. The man does not move, except to fetch out what looks like a whetstone from his pack and start sharpening a dagger from his belt. One leg of his pants is ripped off at the knee. A wide, bloody bandage covers a good handspan of flesh. The man winces every time he has to shift the leg.

 _::hot rock::_ says Rey intently. He agrees- it must be uncomfortable in the harsh sunlight; it's approaching Solstice and the sun's weight is tangible. The shade of the trees is both a relief and a danger all at once; moaners cannot bear the sunlight. The man is wise for staying so far away from any cover, though very, very stupid for stopping on Vio's land.

He steps out of the trees, arrow nocked but not drawn, and kicks a stone down the bank. It is a natural enough noise that it should not draw any untoward attention from deeper in the woods, but the man on the rock looks up immediately.

Vio registers that he is young, that his eyes are as green as the leaves on the trees, and that he is covered in trail dust, before the man makes a startled noise and sets his knife down.

"Ah," he says, then falls silent. Vio lets the silence grow; it is one of his favorite weapons. Many an intruder has broken down under his icy gaze and let slip information they did not mean to tell.

But this man says nothing, only watches Vio under the heavy weight of the sun.

After another minute or two, Vio says "Place any weapons you have onto the rock." His voice is rougher, more hoarse than he expected, and he has to think back for a moment for the last time he spoke more than a word or three aloud- it must be two, three weeks past, the last time he made the journey upriver to the trading post, to barter his poultices and spare furs for fletching for his arrows, bait for his fish hooks, and, perhaps most importantly, extra kerosene for his reading lamp.

The man holds his position long enough for Vio to shift his stance from idle waiting to active hostility, the razor-sharp arrowhead rising three inches to point at flesh instead of rock, then makes a face and shoves his dagger further across the rock. Another dagger follows it, as does what looks to be a short sword that he lifts from where he hid it behind his body. "That's all of them," says the man, his voice just as raspy as Vio's. "Rest of my stuff is clothes and food, and a few trinkets. If you want them, you can have them, just let me go."

"I am not here for your belongings," says Vio. He nods a fraction of an inch and Rey swirls past him, hovering over the man's face for a bare instant before flashing over his packs.

 _::truth::_ she says when she returns, and, a little more insistent, _::blood, hot rock::_

"I suppose you just wanted to hold me at weaponpoint while you gazed into my eyes?" says the man, and has the audacity to smile at him. "Armed robbery _is_ all the craze these days."

He is not wrong on that count.

"You should not have stopped here," Vio says instead, ignoring the banter. "This is my land and I do not allow squatters. You have until the sun is two handspans above the treetops before I fill you with arrows and fillet you for moaner bait."

"Just passin' through," the man is quick to reassure. Too quick, for Vio's liking. "Had a spot of trouble last night, and lost most of my stuff. I heard there was a tradepost out here, I was trying to head for that. Just had to rest my leg for a few."

"The tradepost is a mile and a half upriver from here. If you mean to make it before sundown, you will have to leave soon."

"Fill me with arrows, huh?" says the man, seemingly at random. He squints at Vio's face from underneath his ridiculous hat. "That means...you're the crazy bow-wielding botanist that's staked the claim from here to the pass?"

"The...what?" Vio looks down at his bow, then back at the man.

"I gotta admit," he continues, seeming to gain enthusiasm. "I thought you were just a legend. Rumor has it you once baited and trapped a moaner, drugged it into oblivion, bound, gagged, and put a leash on it, then paraded it down Kakariko's main boulevard and shoved it into the tavern there? You've got everyone for twenty miles around running scared of this stretch of land."

Most of this, Vio has never heard before. Who on Terra would have spun such a tale?! "I did not _parade_ it," he says, indignant. "I snuck it in through the palisades in the dead of night and unleashed it inside the foyer of a man who had done me a great wrong. He had thought to take over my territory. I left him a message as to why that would not be a good idea." The man had been the worst kind of poacher, and had tried to trap Rey away from him. Vio only wished he could have been there to see the man's face when the moaner sucked his soul out.

"Damn," the man on the rock laughs, a short, hoarse bark of genuine amusement. Laughter is few and far between these days. "I can't believe it. No wonder you have everyone terrified to step foot into your woods." His voice is awed; he sounds younger than he looks. Perhaps the grime and the day-old scruff contribute to that. "Look, if you're gonna kill me, can I at least tell you my name first?"

"I am _not_ going to kill you," Vio says, exasperated. "I just want you to _leave_. But if it gets you off my land faster, by all means, speak away."

He laughs again. "I can't imagine why everyone is afraid of you, with a personality like that. It's Green. I'd say it's nice to meet you, but you have an arrow pointed straight at my crotch, and I'm afraid if I say anything else your finger'll slip—”

Rey says **_::hot rock, blood!!!::_ ** loud enough that he jumps.

He's missed something, he realizes in a white-hot flash of apprehension. The bandage. The grime. The stains. The hoarseness in the stranger's voice.

The blood on the hot rock, wafting its savory scent into the forest. A scent which moaners from miles around would follow.

He shoves the arrow back into its quiver and his bow onto his back. "Get your leg in the water, now," he snaps, striding forward quick enough that Green flinches, hands raising to cover his face before Vio kneels and uncaps the canteen of water at his belt, rinsing the blood from the rock. It trickles away in pale red droplets. Vio can only hope he has done so in time.

Green still hasn't moved. Vio makes a noise of frustration and bends over the bandaged leg, cutting through the wraps with little fanfare. The bloody evidence lays before him- a ragged semicircle of puncture wounds, bleeding freely from the lowest mark. The flesh between is taut and red with a developing infection. "You were bitten by a moaner. You were going to the tradepost for the fool's cure," he says, the words like a blunt knife. He sluices the rest of his water over the wound. It must have made walking painful beyond measure."That, or for someone to give you a clean death that you could not give yourself."

Green finally reacts, if only to raise a hand and push the canteen away. "If you're gonna kill me, don't waste your potable water on me," he says shortly. "Yeah, you're right. I'm almost there, I should make it well before sundown."

"Not since you've been bleeding like a stuck pig on a hot rock," Vio snaps. "You may have drawn every moaner within two miles towards this area. I am going to have to spend weeks eradicating them-"

 _::teeth::_ says Rey, almost chiding. Vio stops, sighs. "You know why they call it the fool's cure?"

"Yeah," says Green with a grimace. "Because nine times out of ten, you're a fool to take it. And the tenth time, you're double a fool for living through it. But...I don't want to die yet. If this is my only chance, I'm gonna take it." He sounds sincere.

Beneath the wound, the leg is strong. His hands are wide and calloused. He looks used to hard work.

He makes jokes staring into the face of death. He smiles and laughs in the middle of the wasteland of the dead gods.

And...it has been so long since Vio has had someone other than Rey to talk to.

Vio could use him.

 _::yes::_ says Rey. _::yes good::_

He opens his mouth.

 **_::dead!!::_ ** says Rey.

He turns.

Praise be to the dead gods, for whatever its worth; there is only one. A new-made one, from the uncoordinated shambling, the blind, grasping flex of its hands. Perhaps female, before it had died and been raised, for its hair, not yet falling out, hangs down past its bony shoulders. Flecks of paint— or no, perhaps it was blood— adorn its ragged, chipped nails, not yet hardened to their full strength.

New and stupid, then, to wander so close to the treeline before the sun had set. If they could handle this one, they may yet survive to see sundown.

He has options; he could send Rey after it, though he is loath to pit her against something that could cause her serious harm. He could use one of his razor-headed arrows to send it to its first death, then shove it into the river to wash ashore far downstream of him. He could take Green's dagger and sneak up on it, spiking it through one eye socket, though that would leave him close enough for retaliation, and if he failed the moaner's cries would surely draw more of its kind.

Or he could run.

Green is still as stone beneath his hand. His leg would never bear up under the pace it would take to get to Vio's tree.

 _::take::_ whispers Rey. _::i take::_

Vio looks at her, brow furrowing.

In all his years with her at his side, she has been loath to show herself to others, much less offer to _carry_ them— and never before has he heard her use pronouns. She is much more sentient than any wisp of wild magic he has met before, but even so, she is a limited creature.

Perhaps, though, not as limited as he thought.

Beneath his hand, he feels Green tremble.

What courage, he spends a moment to think, to place his life, unflinching, into the hands of a stranger who had threatened to dismember him mere minutes before.

He nods to Rey. She darts over in a flash, sparks flowing up Green's limbs, cradling him, lifting him bare inches above the ground. Green has the presence of mind to retrieve his dagger as silently as he can, eyes wide and pained. He opens his mouth, perhaps to ask something. Vio makes a vicious negative motion, and he closes it again, nodding.

Smart, then, and listens to orders well. There is a flush in his cheeks that looks worrying.

The moaner shuffles past them, through the trees, and disappears. Vio waits five minutes, then ten, holding his breath, straining his senses towards the treeline. He can sense no one else.

 _::time::_ says Rey, and jets forward. Vio follows, bounding over flat rock and loose pebbles and forest loam alike. The trip back is fraught with nerves; always, Rey ghosts ahead of him, leaving him to fend for himself when it comes to the branches she normally moves for him. One slaps him in the face when he is not quick enough to move it aside, drawing a thin line of blood and a hiss of pain.

Always uphill they range, and Vio does not relax until they have crossed the third undisturbed line of tripwires, deep within the goddesswood grove. After that it is but minutes until they circle the base of Vio's tree. Rey gently lowers Green to the ground, swirling up the pegs to check that no one has trespassed, as usual. When she returns she lifts Green again, cradling him gently as a babe in arms, and follows Vio up the pegs.

Sometime in the journey he's fallen unconscious, breathing harsh and bubbly in his chest. His leg is even more inflamed, dark ooze seeping from the bite wound.

Vio spares him but a glance before he holds his hands out for Rey. She settles in them, radiating an uncharacteristic smugness. "Yes, you have done well, carrying him so far and so smoothly," he agrees, fond as ever. "Do you have enough strength to help me once more for the night?"

 _::yes, good::_ she says, and _thrums_ in his palms.

So he gets out his mortar and pestle while the light is still good, sending Rey for handfuls of ingredients from all over his stores; kokiri-root and water lily, some of his rare desert flowers, purified springwater, grave lichen. He stirs, and Rey flickers over the mixture, and Vio's hands glow green as he works.

When he finishes it is night. The stars glitter above, cold white pinpoints in the void. He feels exhausted, as if he ran twenty miles uphill instead of two, but the poultice in the stone mortar glows faintly, as all his best do. Rey floats over with a long, wide goddesswood leaf; he spreads the poultice over it, then ties it onto Green's leg, on top of the wound. "That is the best we can do, is it not?" he says to Rey, and she swirls around his hands, warm and whisper-soft, and says _::yes, good::_

Green finally stirs when dawn limns the leaves outside his fort in soft gold light. By the time he opens his eyes Vio is halfway across the room with a cup of tea in his hands. "You wake," he says, surprisingly relieved. "I had thought it would be much longer before you did."

"Why does my mouth taste like something died in it," Green croaks, "and why am I still alive?" He tries to shove himself upwards, but Vio lays a hand flat on his chest and pushes him down again.

"Do not move," he chides, "or you will undo all my hard work.I have poulticed and bandaged your leg; you may yet survive with all limbs intact." He waits until Green subsides with a grumble, then sets the tea on the floor beside him. "I will need to reapply the poultice near sundown for the next five days. The fool's cure is rather less foolish when _I_ am the one administering it, rather than those ham-handed shamworkers near the tradepost. After that you should be well enough to walk again, though not for very long or very far. We will need to make sure the moaner ichor has worked its way out of your system before you begin any taxing work. Is that acceptable?"

Green makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "How could it not be? I'm _alive._ You saved me. Why? You were about to shoot me then and there on that rock."

"Because you laughed," says Vio simply. "You smiled at a man who was perfectly willing to shoot you in cold blood. And it has been a very long time since I have been around someone who smiles so easily." He gets up then, feeling as if he has said more than he wished to, and walks to the nearest window. "Once you are healed, you may leave if you wish. I will supply you with food and fresh water enough to make it to the tradepost, at the very least. Someone will be able to provide you with maps there, for wherever you wish to go."

There is silence behind him. Vio leans against the windowsill and stares down the ridge. In the distance, the river glitters, a long silvery line wending its way from and to places unknown.

"It looks like you have a pretty nice setup here," says Green finally, his voice quiet. "But your roof's not thatched tight. You should really have shutters for your windows instead of— what are those, fur curtains?"

His voice grows softer. "I could fix those for you, if you let me stay."

Vio exhales a breath he had not realized he was holding, and turns to face him. "Then," he says, and surprises himself by smiling, "let us talk."

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please jump to the end for content/trigger warnings

_w_  
w h e r e   
a m  
i  
….?  
i - i d o n t 

“Quick, bring the body.  
“Where do you want it?”  
“On the ground- careful! It has to--”

_w h a t_

awareness returns slowly, if it ever fully returns

he--  
what was he doing?  
stealing bread, stomach empty, have to fend off starvation for one more day  
just until brother comes home--

A sound. Stone scraping against stone. Earth moist against his cheek. Damp air.  
Sounds are...odd; as if his head was submerged under _w a t e r_

A splash; a jerk.

His body moves, not under his own control.

He’s being lifted, hefted over someone’s shoulders like a sack of flour.

Every sensation is muted, far away.

 

 

He opens his eyes.

Or, rather, he tries to, but they’ve been half-open this whole time. He can’t move them any further. If he puts the effort into it, he can resolve the blur in front of him to earth, swampy brown, swaying as his head bounces off the back of whoever’s carrying him.

This should be concerning.

Instead, he feels...placid.

“Heavy little shit, isn’t he?”  
“Yeah, but lucky we found him in such great condition.”  
“Lucky my ass! I told you paying off the riverwatcher was a good idea--”

_Riverwatcher?_

Oh, that’s right.

He drowned.

They caught him stealing the bread, and they hit him over the head and threw him into the river to die. Bad luck to kill someone on land, where they could just come back to bite you later.

Drowning was so easy. It just took one breath.

The heaviness is still in his lungs, in his ears; he feels water trickle out of the corner of his mouth with every bounce. The breeze is warm against his chilled skin.

It’s funny how he can’t hear his pulse or feel his heart beat--

Abruptly, without warning, he’s dropped a heart-stopping distance, landing on hard, smooth stone. Wherever he is, it’s dark; he can’t see a thing.

Oh, wait-- that’s not it. His eyelids were forced shut. 

Before he can try to open them, someone passes a hand over his face and does it for him.

He can see stone all around. Shaped, not natural, the walls lit by two weak torches. The air is dry and smells of bone and mold.

There’s light above him; he was dropped down a ladder. More people are descending.

One carries a torch that illuminates a sigil he never wanted to see again.

Oh, _no._

He’s in the tomb of the royal family.

“C’mon, hurry up, if we’re favored we can get three or four prepped tonight.”  
“Should be- waning moon, barely there. Ol’ Flappy likes that.”  
A hiss. “Don’t blaspheme! He can hear you!” 

He’s picked up again, watches the faint light of the surface fade behind him.

“You ever wonder about the lives these guys used to have?”  
“Nah. He’s a Kakariko street rat, good for nothin’ but worm food. He’s lucky we got him before all he made was compost. This way he can actually be of use for once in his miserable life.”  
“Yeah-- when you look at it, we’re sure helpin’ out around town by cleaning out the trash.”

Footsteps, then silhouettes-- three men, one tall and lanky, one brawny, one rotund. The fat one pants for breath, eyes darting nervously around. The other two look unfazed, like they do this all the time.

The brawny one grabs his leg, starts dragging him along the cracked stone floor. His head bounces off of every cracked paving stone. It doesn’t hurt. Why doesn’t it hurt?

He’s hefted up once more, tossed onto a slab of rock, his clothes sliced off his body. “Give me the hammer,” says the brawny one. 

That...should be worrying. 

He can’t summon up the energy to care.

He can’t summon up the energy to feel anything, really.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the brawny one approach, towards the middle of the table.

That looks more like a sledgehammer than a--

A sickening crack. The faintest discomfort, as if a weight pressing down on him. Was that his ribcage shattering?

How is he still aware, able to feel, able to think, when his lungs cannot inflate and his heart--

Did his heart just beat?

The lanky man leans down, a dark shadow in the darker room, and his hand-- goes-- somewhere he doesn’t want to think about somewhere shattered and gaping and open exposing things to the air that were never meant to be exposed this is-- this-- 

_shh,_ whispers something-- someone?-- in the back of his mind.

There is a tugging, a grunt; a sudden loss, a lack of something vital, and the lanky man steps back, a warm and dripping lump in his hand. “Nice,” says the brawny man, “squeeze it, see if it-- oh, disgusting,” as the lanky man does, fluid expelling itself from open cavities. “Just put it somewhere, we don’t need it yet.”

“I know how to do this,” says the lanky man sullenly, but turns around and sets his heart somewhere he can’t see.

They’re silent after, washing his shattered body free of blood, peeling him open, taking what was inside and putting it outside, and through it all he watches, vague and emotionless. He’s emptied, salted, scrubbed down, packed full of reeds and rushes and a fist-sized rock that none of the men will look at directly, and sewn back together.

The fat one bends down and starts drawing on the floor. The lanky one sets torches onto the floor-- there is a pattern to it, but he can’t see that far. The brawny one sets his heart back onto his chest.

“Almost ready?”  
“Yes, just a moment.”

With a gesture, the lanky man lights the torches.

With a movement, the fat man cuts his palm and seals the drawing on the floor with blood.

And in the same instant, the brawny man stabs a dagger into the heart on his chest.

It feels like a tether is cut; he blows backwards and up, away from his body, towards the ceiling ( _through_ the ceiling?) and--

A light sweeps over him and he sees--

The sky-- the sky is a void, hungry and endless, the blackness of an open mouth, of gaping jaws, and it hurts to look at, as if it’s eating all that’s left of him, so he has to look away-- 

the walls are transparent; the earth is transparent; he is so high up, hovering between earth and sky, and far to the west he can see light, a bright, golden light that the blackness above aches to devour--

_yes there,_ something hisses, like an oil slick across his thoughts, _right there go to the light go to it--_

he wants to he wants to but something draws his gaze up up up to the void, to the sky, where the moon hangs fat and round--

no  
that  
is not   
the m o o n -- 

a storm in the void, a storm, a gale, made from the beating of endless wings, a wind that scours flesh from bone, a baleful presence--

\--the eye--

\--the moon is an eye--

\--I T S E E S--

almost forgotten between breaths, in the lanky man’s hand, his   
heart   
beats-- 

 

**_NO!!!_ **

 

Pain, shocking, instant, through every inch of his body, every nerve is afire, it burns, it burns!!

He screams-- 

 

\-- the storm, the wings endlessly flapping, the churning, hungry void--

\--the eye--

\--it sees him it sees him--

\-- I T S E E S H I M--

\--and it _r o a r s_ \--

Anger, bitter, bitter frustration, a rage that’s capable of devastating worlds, all screaming raw hatred in his direction, and something lodges in his chest like a sliver of ice, a bitter shard so cold it _burns--_

_no,_ a voice whispers inside of him, and he -- 

h e - 

 

Months ago, in the fall, he’d caught a glimpse of the man everyone called insane, the solitary botanist with his compound bow and his fairy hovering ever-present over his shoulder. No one trusted him, not since the moaner incident, but his herbs were always fresh and potent, his poultices effective for weeks after others’ had faded.

‘Man’ is a misnomer; he’s barely more than a boy. Barely older than he is, certainly less than twenty summers.

He’d been in the market with Papa, trying to sell bits of the harvest they really could not afford to lose, when silence had fallen. The bowman had walked through the stalls, ignoring the silence, straight to the Kakariko shaman to sell his wares. He would keep a few packets for trading along the river, as was his wont, and spend everything else he earned in the market.

Talk had started up again slowly, but he had not paid attention, for the little green fairy that hovered eternally over the botanist’s shoulder was no longer there.

Instead it was hovering in front of his face.

This close, it looked nebulous, intangible, dusted with speckles of gold inside.

He didn’t know why he reached out to touch it; Papa was busy, and brother was away-- but he’d stretched out a hand in silent curiosity.

The fairy had wobbled, as if indecisive, then alighted on his fingertips.

And--  
suddenly--

It was as if another mind rested inside his, heavy and overpowering and very definitely _female,_ and the fairy at his fingertips _thrummed,_ even as a light, endlessly amused voice said inside of him, _“yes, you’ll do nicely.”_

And then a _twist--_  
and a _laugh,_ joyous, triumphant-- 

she puts something inside of him, something warm and golden and glowing, and it burns inside of him, a good burn, a clean burn--   
_forget,_ she croons, and he--

h e --

_w h a t …?_

Papa calls his name and he jumps, and the fairy lifts off his hands, no longer full of golden sparkles, and darts away-- he doesn’t see where to, Papa hands him an armload of tubers and points and he goes, resentful at the loss of so much food.

_\--the cold gaze of the void-moon sears into him, pulling at his **self,** his **soul,** and something clicks inside his mind--_

_\--a warm female voice, a golden burn, a triumphant, joyous laugh--_

_**\--remember!!!--** _

The glow once planted into his chest bursts into life, fills him with power, shines brightly enough to blind the eye, stun the wings, long enough for him to regain his sense, his **self** \--

\--the three men are screaming--  
\--his body, poor ruined thing, is glowing--  
\--an explosion, silent, brilliant, the light burning through the room, burning the men, charring the walls, the floor, and then scouring them clean--

\-- _control_ \-- the voice whispers, and he-- somehow, he pulls the light inward, back into his **self** \--

\--the wings move--  
\--the eye blinks--  
\--a shard of void pierces the glow and it’s too late, he can’t stop drawing the light inside of him, and the void slices into him, slices his **self** , his **soul,** and--

The glow cuts off.

The room is dark.  
 _\--all that is left are shadows--_  
Somehow, he can still see.  
 _\--no eyes, no need for eyes--_  
Somehow, he can move.  
 _\--no bones no body no blood no need--_

He lifts his hand.  
Is… is this even his hand?

The shape is right-- four fingers, thumb, palm-- but smoky, insubstantial, like a soap bubble filled with woodsmoke. Even as he watches, he can see shadows curling inside, wispy, indistinct.

He sits up.  
 _\--seek find seek find seek--_  
His limbs feel heavy and weightless at the same time. When he looks down, he sees his body, as insubstantial as his hand was.  
 _\--find seek find seek find--_  
There is no sign of the three men that had pulled his old body out of the river, no sign but three dark splotches against the far wall-- one tall and lanky, one bulky, one rotund.  
 _\--seek find seek find seek--_  
He swings his legs down onto the ground. The stone is warm beneath his feet.  
 _\--find seek find seek find--_  
The exit is not far away. He needs to find shelter before daylight. Somehow, he knows the sun will burn him.  
 _\--seek find seek find seek--_

Something pulls him towards the west, towards where that warm golden glow had been, twin to the light he had wrapped inside himself. He wants to know what it is. He wants to touch it.  
 _\--find find find mine mine mine mine--_  
It looks like his light. It should belong to him.  
 _\--yes mine find seek find seek mine mine--_

He crouches at the base of the opened tomb just a moment, just to orient himself, then flits off into the night, hiding among the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter: character mutilation, character death (they get better), non-graphic descriptions of drowning and gore
> 
> (what the fuck is formatting i am so sorry.)  
> (this got weird and it's gonna stay weird bear with me)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please jump to the end for content/trigger warnings

In his dreams there is a man.

He is monstrous; he is ordinary. He is monstrous in how ordinary he seems. He could pass this man in a town and not give him a second glance, were it not for the blood that drips from his mouth, and were it not for the black pits of his eyes.

In his dreams, the man laughs.

He laughs, and the blood sprays from his mouth, spatters the void around him, stains his clothes and his hands until the world seems to run gold with it. The laughter never reaches the soulless pits of his eyes.

Some nights the man does nothing but laugh, and those nights are the easiest.

The nights where the man talks are the worst.

What he says, Green can never understand, but his voice is low and smooth, persuasive. The sort of voice one would not mind listening to, if it weren’t for the blood that pours from his mouth, that stains his teeth and shirt and hands. He talks, and tries to persuade, but his voice is little more than a river-murmur, the soft susurrus of tall grass in the breeze.

The longer he talks, the clearer his voice seems to get. Those nights are the worst, when the man draws near, his bloodstained hands reaching, his voice a whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to listen, _listen, **listen—**_

It’s always a mercy when he wakes up. 

~**~**~**~

It’s been three days since he was rescued by the river, and Green’s spent most of them sleeping. Whatever the heck is in the nasty-smelling poultice Vio keeps slapping on his leg works; he’s had to change the poultice twice a day, there’s so much gunk draining out of his leg. How does that much goo even get into a person?

Vio said it was necrotizing flesh. Green told him he didn’t know what ‘necrotizing’ meant, and didn’t want to know either. That’s only the second time Green’s been able to wring a smile out of him.

(Is he counting? Maybe. It’s not like there’s much else he can do while he’s laid up sick, and the dude’s got a real nice smile.)

Still. It’s nice to feel like a person again, instead of a dead man walking. Surprising how much the constant terror about the pall of death surrounding you can take it out of a guy.

In his defense, the bite hadn’t been his fault. Not like he needs to justify that. (He needs to justify that, even if it’s just to himself. Near-death brushes have a way of making a man look back at his life and wonder, ‘why the hell did I do that.’) He’d been walking through the woods, and all of a sudden, BAM! Pit trap. He’d only slipped in with one leg, had the presence of mind to grab the nearest tree trunk, and that’s what saved his life.)

(He knows that if he’d fallen in with both legs, he’d be dead by now.)

_Ugh, too morbid._

Vio’s out scouting. He’s taken his little green buddy with him, of course; from what he’d said in the few conversations they’ve had while Green’s been awake and coherent, she’s pretty much a separate set of eyes and ears. Kinda like a sixth sense meets a really smart dust cloud.

(He knows he’s not making much sense, even to himself. His fever feels like it’s spiking again, but Vio’s not due back until near sundown. Green’s stuck watching the sun crawl across the floor by his bed-pallet and snacking on the delicious forest debris Vio left for him, when he can convince his hand to head towards his mouth instead of just laying on the floor. Funny how much nearly dying can take it out of a guy.)

(Has he said this already?)

(Damn, he’s more out of it than he thought.)

It’s hard staying awake these days. He slips from consciousness to dreaming so smoothly he hardly notices it happening.

~**~**~**~

Tonight, the man is…chatty.

The blood drools from his mouth in thick, sparkling gold ropes. He’s covered in it. It looks like he’s bathed in it.

His fingernails are pointed. The blood clots there in golden jellylike clumps.

Around him beats the shadow of wings.

He stands, and he stares, and he smiles, and he talks.

“Gdje je mala kucka onda? Ste je videli?” he says, those black pits staring in Green’s direction. “Ja cu rip joj srce i pojesti ga pravilno ovaj put.”

This is new. This is the first time his words have sounded like words.

The man’s smile widens impossibly large. He opens his mouth and the blood gushes forth, a great golden river with himself as its wellspring, and everything is suffused with a sweet metallic scent.

Waking is, as always, a mercy.

~**~**~**~

It’s been a week, and his leg is almost back to normal, if “weirdly shrunken and loosely puffy” is normal. 

Well, it’s more normal than “swollen fit to burst and drooling pus out of every puncture,” so there’s that. Given his druthers, he’s not going to complain all that much.

What does suck is how _weak_ Green still is. He made all these home improvement promises to try and squeeze his way into his host’s good graces, and all he’s done instead is lie on the floor and drool a bit.

Seriously. He wakes up all the time with his mouth open. It’s pretty gross. He’s glad Vio doesn’t mention anything.

Of course, Vio doesn’t really mention anything in general? He’s kinda quiet, from what Green’s noticed, but that’d make sense, living alone smack dab in the middle of moaner territory.

That’s alright. Green can talk enough for both of them. When he’s awake to, that is. And honestly, with the dreams he’s been having, it’s hard enough to stay awake during the day as it is. He’d kill something for a simple night’s sleep with no weird, creepy dreams.

On the bright side, today he’s strong enough to sit up for more than a couple minutes at a time, and he spends it bundling together some dry river reeds in preparation to re-thatch Vio’s roof. They’re not the best; when his leg is better, he’ll have to go scouting for more himself, and maybe he can borrow Rey to help lug them back once he’s cut and dried them.

He’s surrounded by bundles of thatch, sleepily weighing one against another in both palms, when Rey flits up the stairs hauling the drained and gutless corpse of a late-summer fawn. “Dang,” Green says, and yawns. “Unlucky bastard, that one.”

_::yes,::_ says Rey, with a sort of quiet humor. _::good, not good::_

“Exactly.” He blinks then, sleepy brain catching up to the obvious. “But I thought you two usually did your dismembering down by the stream. It’s kinda gross to do it in here, right?”

_::busy,::_ Rey says, and _::help::_

Green regards the limp carcass doubtfully. “I dunno how much help I’ll be, little lady. Not really in the best shape here,” as he holds up a trembling hand.

In answer, Rey swirls around him, splitting herself to line his arms in glittering green sparks, and tugs him forward. _::i help,::_ she whispers, _::you help, we help::_

“Well,” Green shrugs, scooting himself across the floor towards the dead fawn, “if you say so.”

~**~**~**~

Tonight the man doesn’t look at him at all; he stands a few dozen feet away, features lit as if by a spotlight, his hands drawn into fists. Golden blood falls in a tiny, pattering stream from one clenched hand. Blood stains his arm halfway up to the shoulder; blood covers his mouth and neck and nose in thick golden sparkles.

_“Ewhre si teh tlelti cbith, enht?”_ He says conversationally, and opens one hand. A tiny pink body, crushed almost beyond recognition, falls from his grasp, and disappears before it hits the floor. A _fairy,_ Green realizes with nauseated horror. He makes a swift grabbing motion, as if chasing away a fly or an insect that’s gotten too close to his face, examines his hand, and bites into the emptiness there as if he was holding a particularly juicy fruit.

Fresh golden blood spills down from his mouth; he licks it away almost absentmindedly, taking another bite of the fairy in his palm. “Jesi li je vidio? _I’m ognig ot ipr reh hrtea uot dna ate it rpyopelr this mtei.”_

A pause; the man tilts his head as if waiting for a response, one that Green cannot quite hear. Whatever it is, it displeases the man. He snatches another fairy from the blackness, then a third and fourth, and when he has enough for a doubled handful he opens his mouth—

A mouth should not unhinge that wide, but unhinge it does, billowing out and out, swallowing the fairies, swallowing the darkness, swallowing the man’s entire body until only the smears and spatters of sparkling gold remain.

And when nothing but Green remains, the mouth rushes towards him as well.

~**~**~**~

It’s been two weeks, and Green’s well enough to climb up and down the treehouse ladder, though he has to rest after each time, and Vio won’t let him do it more than once a day. He’s also not allowed to go more than a few hundred feet up or downhill, and every evening has to sit with his leg elevated and one of those foul poultices still smeared across it.

It doesn’t matter, though.

Green’s finally _useful_ again!

Not very much so, but Vio’s shown him how to check the tripwires, how to balance the cans full of stones so that the lightest disturbances won’t overbalance them. Anything heavier than a stiff breeze or a gentle brush will topple one, then the next, until the whole area is alive with the sound. It’s a tedious process to refill and re-balance each canister, and Vio’s got a whole lot more to take care of than Green at the moment, so Green’s doing the maintenance work for the foreseeable future.

The woods are quiet and peaceful, the sun not yet high enough to penetrate the canopy above; everything is cool and damp beneath the trees, and Green is happy to hum under his breath while he works.

He’s near halfway done when the trip line he’s holding quivers; seconds later, the shivery sound of countless pebbles spilling onto late-summer loam farther down the hill rings through the air.

He realizes what he should have long before in one stricken instant.

The songbirds have stopped singing minutes ago.

This is bad. This is very bad. Either it’s a moaner, and he’s about to have his head ripped off, or it’s a live person, and he’s about to become a _pincushion._

He takes stock of himself; he’s not well enough to run, not from a live one, but he might be fast enough to out-shamble a shambler. He doesn’t have a weapon; he left both his sword and his dagger back in the treehouse, because Vio told him these woods were _safe,_ that most everyone around knew not to trespass.

Another tripwire shivers; another set of canisters tumbles onto the ground. He’s gotta make up his mind, and fast. 

First things first, gotta get upright.

He levers himself up onto both hands and one knee, his recovering leg sticking out at an uncomfortable angle, and shoves. Luckily, he doesn’t overbalance, though his leg protests the sudden weight it’s made to bear when he balances.

From here, it’s about fifty feet uphill until he can reach the trail Vio and Rey have made to make it easier for him to get to and fro. They said they’d erase it when he was all better, but for now he’s been appreciating the flat, level path.

One step, then two, sticking to the softest of the forest duff; his injured leg buckles once or twice beneath him, but he catches himself both times before he can fall. The third set of triplines goes off behind him; either whatever’s coming is just that oblivious, or it honestly doesn’t care who hears it approaching. Could be an idiot; could be dead. Either one is bad news for Green.

Ten feet away from the trail, his leg crumples with a shocking spike of pain. He cries out before he can help it, slapping both hands over his mouth to try and muffle the sound.

It’s too late, though.

Something moans back in response.

This is both the best and the worst possible way to find out, Green thinks to himself in mild hysteria. He still might be able to outrun a moaner, even on his bum leg, but he can’t he sure as hell can’t out-talk it, and that means he’s probably about to die. There’s no use in yelling; any noise he makes will just help it triangulate his position, and could bring more moaners closer, drawing them in towards Vio’s home.

That’s a risk he just won’t take.

_Think, **think,** think or you’re **dead,** there’s gotta be a way out of this!_

The only thing he can do is get to the path. 

The only thing he can do is lead it away, far enough so there’s little chance of it finding Vio’s treehouse.

_He saved my life. My turn to save his. Sort of._

Dragging himself upward with the sort of desperate strength that comes from knowing he’s about to die, he makes his way up onto the path, barely noticing that he’s scraped his palms raw. A well-placed sapling gives him enough leverage to heft himself off the ground and start limping west. His leg flares white-hot with every step, but Green clamps his teeth down on his lip hard enough to bleed and carries on.

It’s no use. 

He gets about a hundred feet before his leg gives out again, this time with a fizzle that sends sparks to his eyes and robs him of sight for a second or three. That’s enough to make him trip and fall flat. He knows there’s no coming back from this; even if he could gather the willpower to heave himself up one more time, his leg wouldn’t take the abuse.

There’s nothing he can do now but die the best he can.

He rolls over onto his back, panting with exertion and pain. Down the path, closing in with its steady, relentless pace, the moaner approaches.

It’s old. Its clothes are in shredded tatters hanging from scrawny, withered limbs, no longer protecting skin tanned almost to leather by the sun. Knots and ropes of tendons and ligaments stand starkly wrapped around brittle bones, hands grown into claws grasping, reaching. Hair long since fallen out, eyes long since eaten by ravens, its mouth is an empty gaping ‘o’ begging to be filled. It drops its jaw and moans again, the sound making the hairs on the back of Green’s neck stand up straight.

The rumor is that anyone who hears a shambler moan will die. In practice, it’s easy to escape them one-on-one, and even one-on-group; they’re easy to outwit, easy to outrun, easy to outthink. The rumors still persist.

In this moment, Green understands why. The moan of the shambling dead is a sound filled with desperation, with sorrow, with a wild, untamed longing for the living. The moaners seek the living because they seek their own lives; and, not finding them, unable to stand the feel of a life not theirs so close, extinguish it.

His hand finds a rock, sharp and narrow, lying on the path.

When it bends down, he’ll make his move.

It’s barely an armspan away, already starting to lean forward, when something hums past sharp and loud. Green entertains momentary hysterical thoughts of the world’s biggest hornet before an arrow sprouts from the moaner’s empty eye socket, fletched in black and green. A second one hits almost immediately after, a bare handspan above the first, rocking the moaner back on its heels hard enough to make it collapse. There’s a shout that Green doesn’t catch and then he’s wrapped in green light, fizzing around his arms and legs, lifting him up and flinging him back and away.

As he rockets backwards he sees Vio, face grim, racing forward with a brightsteel dagger already unsheathed in his hand. Then he’s gone, the trees blurring in his vision.

“Rey,” he says, voice shaking. “Rey.”

_::yes, good,::_ she whispers. _::have you, still, not move::_

He doesn’t, just lets his limbs relax, and she slows, turns him around so he can see Vio dismembering the moaner with quick, efficient slices.

_::help,::_ Rey says when he’s done, settling Green gently onto the ground. _::i help::_

“You did help,” Green repeats, watching Vio rise to his feet, an arm held loosely in his hands. When he waves with it, the moaner’s dead, clawed hand bobbing joyfully at the end, Green can’t quite suppress the bubble of hysterical laughter that comes out. “You were the best help. Thank you.”

He trails his fingertips through the nebulous edges of her light, and she thrums around them like a tiny windstorm. When she pulls away to go help Vio burn the body, he thinks he can see the barest traces of green light limning them.

~**~**~**~

The man stands in the darkness, mouth smeared with glimmers of gold. Behind him beats the shadows of infinite wings, behind him a thousand eyeballs roll and stare.

The man stands, and the man smiles, and the man approaches Green.

The man says, “Where is the little bitch, then? Have you seen her? I’m going to rip her heart out and eat it properly this time.”

He puts a finger under Green’s chin, and Green can swear he feels the nail sharpen to a point, denting the soft, vulnerable skin nearest his throat. It digs in when he swallows. “I…little bitch?” he asks, trying not to move his jaw more than he has to.

“Farore, you ignorant mortal,” the man says conversationally. Behind him, the eyes spin faster. Behind him, the wings beat frantically. “I know she’s there. I can smell her on you. I’ve tasted her blood. She lives inside me, as they all do. I swallowed the goddesses and the sky.”

His hand comes up and cups Green’s chin, almost tenderly. The points of his nails break the skin; Green feels the pain almost distantly, sees his red blood dripping down the man’s arm, joining the streaks of gold, muddying them to obscurity.

The man leans close, his lips brushing the point of Green’s ear almost intimately. “I can’t be complete until I have the last bits of her,” he murmurs, voice soft and low like a lover’s. “I need all of her power to turn this world into my own.”

His hand turns, slides down, grips the front of Green’s neck. His nails dig in, almost to the first knuckle. He opens his mouth and it’s a vortex of teeth and wind, rotating endless and eternal.

**_“So where is she???”_** he hisses, and tears out Green’s throat.

~**~**~**~

“So how did you sleep?” Green asks the next morning. “And, funny question, is your fairy actually the fragment of a murdered goddess? Because I’ve been having some weird-ass dreams lately.”

Vio stares at him, mute before his first morning cup of tea.

Behind him, the ball of light that comprises Rey freezes, then shatters, scattering clumps and sparks of green across the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings for this chapter: dead things walking, blood, lots and lots and lots of blood, mild mentions of dismemberment, seriously if the mention of blood grosses you out you might wanna skip most of the dream sequences
> 
> (still weird, right? trust me, next chapter things'll start unknotting themselves)


End file.
